Thorin blinks sleepily once or twice, before sitting bolt upright.

"Mahal preserve us..." He whispers, because it's immediately clear that this is not the Halls of Mandos.

Thorin's always paid attention to the afterlife, as well befits one of Durin's line, even if they are not the reincarnation. He knows all the possible lore, has memorized the promises laid out before him, and this is most decidedly not the grand hall.

Mahal would not be so cruel as to remind Thorin of his people's poverty, at least not in this way. Dis's list of necessities, the one he had to comb through monthly and determine which ones to eliminate in order to afford the other, is even lying on the stone desk near his bed.

And yet...there was no denying that he had died. Thorin can still feel strength receding from his bones, like his very essence was detaching and curling within himself; he can still feel the scrabbling panic as his eyesight began to fail, focusing on the hobbit as the edges grew black and pulled closer.

Bilbo.

His hobbit, shrouded in that ridiculous wedding garb, the shimmering mithril cloth so incongruous with the battle-filth caked to Bilbo's skin and the streaks of blood trickling from his hair, is engraved on his eyelids, face framed perfectly by the swirling darkness.

"Bilbo..."

And then Dis is poking her head through the door.

"What did you call me?" She says with joking challenge. She cocks an eyebrow, but, oh, it pains him to see such deep bags carved under her eyes.

"Nothing," he grumbles.

"I'm sure," she leans further into the room, "Well, I'll be calling you lazybones if you don't get up now. Don't forget, you must leave by noon, and you have yet to make a public farewell." With that, and a smile that lifts her beard amicably, Dis pushes off the doorway and moves out of the room.

Thorin wants to crumple into a miserable ball when the overpowering familiarity tells him what this is. He wants to pound his fists against the wall so hard that it brings the mountains down upon him; he wants to scream "NEVER. NEVER AGAIN." over and over until the Valar agree to kill him instead.

It is the day Thorin leaves for the quest. He must travel out of the way of the Shire, to attend a summons in the Iron Hills, a summons he called and one he now knows is futile.

(Which still rankles, to be honest.)

When that ordeal is over, he will make his way to Hobbiton, where he will see Bilbo. His halfling, his burglar, his damned husband.

And Bilbo will see yet another dwarf come to eat his food and destroy his mother's china.

He will look at him without a spark of recognition, and Thorin might as well kill himself. Perhaps that'd even be the best course of action.

For after the night at Bag End, they continue on in the journey, on which he will subject his company to danger and death at every turn until finally they arrive at Erebor, and he repays those most worthy of his respect and care with the gold sickness. Smaug would fall, and so would Thorin.

Bilbo dangling from his grasp. Bilbo's feet swinging above the abyss. Bilbo's hands, holding onto Thorin with all their strength. Bilbo staring at him with those desperate eyes.

Then a battle, and his sister sons cut open, broken at his feet, before he too is brought down.

This is the path he is forced to walk once again.

NO.

Something sharp and searing flares in his chest, and a slash of white light eclipses his vision. He really does collapse this time, panting heavily against the bedspread.

A voice, clear as a bell and ringing as resolutely, speaks through the haze. It's distant, like a memory, but Thorin can't recall ever hearing such a timbre.

"You are not the first to receive such a boon, Thorin Oakenshield, and I would not have you be the first to waste it."

Nothing else accompanies it, and yet he begins to grasp the name of that voice, stern and gentle, starting softly ... Y-

Dis's unamused voice yanks him back.

"Have you gone mad?" She storms in, "What in the name of the seven are you doing still in bed? Get up, you lazy oaf!"

Thorin doesn't have time to compose himself before his sister is pushing him off the bed in full force. Dis freezes, however, when she meets his eyes.

"Ah," she says softly. "So you are worried." She places a hand - nearly as calloused as his own - on his cheek and leans their foreheads together. They remain like this for long heartbeats, the gesture simple and comforting. Their breaths mingle, and Thorin is forcefully reminded both of the rows of families greeting each other so immediately after Smaug's desolation, and of Fili and Kili playacting it for the first time, communicating in barely hushed whispers and copious amounts of giggling.

Thorin sucks in a final fortifying breath and moves back from Dis.

"The boys," he says roughly, still holding her eyes, "They will be at the ceremony?"

Dis nods, smile growing on her face once again, "Aye. You think they would miss any chance to see your majestic traits on display?"

Thorin snorts inelegantly, "Best put on my traveling cloak, then."

"Yes, the tattered furs do much to add to your general air of complete majesty."

"Get out so I can change," he growls, and he lets her receding laughter lift his spirits.

They cannot stay high for long.